an unknown fire
by thinkatory
Summary: Set in the 19th century portions of A Swiftly Tilting Planet. A sister's tale; of Gwydyr's line, how it began, and how it ended. "They don't speak of the story behind their names, not out loud. They don't have to. It's haunted them and their kin for as long as their blood memory stretches, to the shores of a lake too far away to fathom and too long ago to comprehend."


Set in the 19th century portions of A Swiftly Tilting Planet.

* * *

At her heart, Zillie knows that Gedder is a good man. There are no perfect men; there are only men who try their best to both do and be good. Gedder is one of those men. He has his faults and his missteps, but he means well and does well.

But her dreams are frightful and her nights are fraught with cold sweats and waking to short breath and terror, and in the morning she can't bear to look into his blue eyes, or meet her own gaze in the mirror.

* * *

Zillie does the mending in her room while Gedder paces outside, as he does every afternoon before they prepare dinner. She thinks on the dream of last night, of her belly swollen with child, and the earth tilting underneath their feet, back and forth, wildly, like a metronome, with each of her heartbeats.

Something is happening.

He enters her room without knocking. He's perturbed. She turns up to him, serene, worried, interested. "What's wrong?" she prompts him.

"There's a woman, Zillie." He sits backwards on a chair and watches her mend one of her skirts. "In the Welsh colony. She looks like you."

She raises her eyes for only a moment. "Welsh blood," she says, and continues at her work. "It must make for dark people."

"You're not listening," Gedder says, in his frustrated, focused way. "She looks like us." He struggles for a word. "Aristocratic. Princely."

"She looks princely?" Zillie asks, with some amusement.

"She looks royal," he insists; the fire goes out of his eyes for a moment, and he's just the little boy who loved stories too much to fully embrace the here and now once more. "Like us." When she doesn't answer, he goes on. "Her name's Gwen. Gwen Maddox."

That stops her cold. "Maddox?" she repeats, testing the name in her mouth.

"Yes," Gedder says, firmly. She meets his sharp and desperate gaze and holds it, though it pains her to see him trapped in myths and might-have-beens, and as she tries to draw a smile from him with one of her own, the world tilts again, even in her waking hours, and something's changed in him, in them.

* * *

They don't speak of the story behind their names, not out loud. They don't have to. It's haunted them and their kin for as long as their blood memory stretches, to the shores of a lake too far away to fathom and too long ago to comprehend.

It haunts Zillie enough before she meets the colonists, but then they appear, and it cuts her to the quick. The Maddoxes are unmistakable; Gwen Maddox is just as she imagined, with direct and cutting cold blue eyes like Gedder's, and her brother - Brandon, she learns - is handsome and golden and stately, with eyes the color of the storm-tossed ocean.

Gedder knows her too well. He sees the way her breath catches in her throat at the sight of him, she knows he does, and they wait to discuss until the day's labor is done and there isn't anyone to hear.

"You know what this means, sister," he says, as they prepare dinner.

She's relieved he's given it voice, even if that means she has to speak. "I saw how she looked at you," she whispers.

"This is our birthright." He cuts the vegetables, at ease with knives, as ever. "You should be proud."

"I am," Zillie promises, her heart in her throat. "I only… we should be cautious."

"You always beg caution," Gedder says, not looking at her, straight on task.

"And am I wrong to?"

He doesn't answer; he knows she's right. Dinner is a somber affair. Zillie drifts into a daydream as she cleans the dishes, of Brandon Maddox and his fair hair and the faint but genuine smile ever on his lips.

* * *

Her sleep is fitful for the next few nights. She sees a woman who looks like herself, all dark hair and dark eyes and honey-dark skin, but there's fear in her eyes as she backs away from something Zillie can't see, towards a fire built from flower garlands. A man steps in front of her, a man fair and beautiful and kind, she knows without question, and she can feel the heat of flames out of control and strong and reaching out to her with bright and burning tendrils; when Gedder crosses to fight the fair prince she tries to tear herself from the dream, and wakes up.

Her bedclothes are soaked with sweat. She thanks God she didn't shout. She doesn't know if she can face Gedder, not now.

"I promise," she whispers, softly. "I promise we'll change."

Fire and death; these are not their birthright. It can't be so.

* * *

It feels inevitable. Zillie's aunt told her of lines that connect people, family, friends, and lovers, all those we love and whose connections to us won't fade because of distance or time. The line between Gwen Maddox and Gedder grows shorter as the day goes on, and, as he does, Gedder pushes Zillie.

"Call on him," Gedder says, first, then wheedles her, presses her, makes excuses to send her to visit the others. To visit Brandon, despite the way her line towards the sweet Llewellyn Pugh grows shorter by the day.

It's their birthright, Gedder says, so Zillie goes to Bran.

She feels mad when she stands in a room with Bran. He's warm, compassionate, and treats her kindly enough. The wrongness of it aches in her. He's promised to another, she's told, news from a photograph he carries; a girl in America who looks like her but with the blue eyes that mark her as special, as destined.

She knows how Gedder must feel, how sharp and cutting the desperation must be inside of him. She knows what this kind of story, this kind of love, can do. It can ruin a life or make history. Gedder has a chance. She doesn't.

On her fourth visit to Bran's, she leaves and finds his sister waiting for her only steps away. "I hope I'm not being indelicate," Gwen says; cynical amusement sparkles in her blue eyes. "I want to speak to you about our brothers. Walk with me?"

"Of course," Zillie says, before she can think twice about it, and clasps her hands together nervously as they go.

"I'm growing fond of Gedder," Gwen says, with the air of one who has only begun to talk. "He's a good man. I don't feel I know him well, but that seems… like a daunting prospect. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes." Zillie nods. "He speaks when he must. We're both inclined to that."

"Unlike us, I suppose? Oh, don't be concerned, I'm only joking," Gwen says, flippantly, and Zillie tries to hide her embarrassment. "You're fond of Bran. Aren't you?"

"Yes," Zillie confirms, again, too quickly, and looks down. "He's a - a fine member of the colony. We're lucky to have him."

"Zillie," Gwen says, near chiding, and she can't look up at her, can't meet her gaze. "My brother's fiancee will join him here soon. He… he loves her well, though it hasn't been easy, of course."

"I never intended - "

"It doesn't matter," Gwen says, swiftly. "Some people think it's improper. I know that the appearance of impropriety isn't a reason not to do something, if you really feel it must be done. If he doesn't love Zillah, he may love you. I want my brother to be happy."

"Brandon deserves to be happy," Zillie confirms, and meets Gwen's gaze. "I believe he'll do what's right."

Gwen very nearly smiles, then. "Tell Gedder I mean to bring him what I promised tomorrow. Thank you, Zillie."

Zillie nods a cursory farewell and draws away, her face aflame, the everpresent haze of her oh-so-real dreams clouding her mind as she walks home. She looks into the cloudy sky to distract herself.

The world tilts, again

The prince with kind eyes - the prince with a mouth so pinched and sharp in hate it could cut as deep as his gaze - the innocent princess garlanded and afraid - a woman full with child in flowing dress - fire, fire, endless fire, reflected in blue eyes -

She arrives at home without a memory to spare of how she arrived. Gedder looks at her, inquisitive in his way, and she makes herself speak.

"Gwen told me to tell you she'll bring you what she promised."

She'd sworn to herself, as privately and buried deep inside herself as she could manage, that she wouldn't tell him, for reasons she couldn't fully grasp. But it's escaped her mouth, her mind, now, and Gedder smiles. Though she knows he's happy, or as happy as he can be, the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

It never does.

* * *

A week passes (Llewellyn tries vainly to catch her gaze and interest and all she can do is smile, sadly; this is her birthright), and Zillie dreams -

The settlement is beautiful. There are trees and a lake, and Zillie knows this is home, not the home she's always known, but the one that is her home in the heart of hearts, the one she and Gedder have been working their entire lives to regain, if only in spirit or name.

In her hands are flowers and plants, none like those Zillie gathers in Vespugia. This woman is beautiful, and kind, with warm blue eyes the color of the lake. She is tired, body and soul, and her belly is rounded; she wants more than anything, now, to meet her child. She knows the flowers just as Zillie does, and as she gathers them in her hands and stops to look at the moon, she sings a song of such pure hope that Zillie can't hope to ever understand.

" _Lords of fire and earth and water,_

 _Lords of moon and wind and sky,_

 _Come now to the Old Man's daughter,_

 _Come from fathers long gone by._

 _Bring blue from a distant eye._

 _Lords of water, earth, and fire,_

 _Lords of wind and snow and rain,_

 _Give to me my heart's desire._

 _Life as all life comes with pain,_

 _But blue will come to us again._ "

There are words, then, that press angrily into her head, desperate for her to grasp and use them. But she can't feel them; they're too far away. She has images of sun and thunderstorms with flashes of lightning, the sea tossing against the rocks, but nothing else.

When Zillie wakes, Gedder is sitting in her room. She does her best not to flinch at his presence, his anger, his misunderstanding of it all. He knows what and who they are, but not what they could be.

She isn't courageous enough to speak.

"Rich Llawcae," her brother says, evenly, "is a problem."

Her heart races. "Let me speak to Bran."

"No," Gedder says. She thinks she can see flames reflected in his eyes, and heat flashes through her. "You've - you've failed us."

"Gedder - please."

"What?" he protests. "What would you have me do?"

Zillie watches him for a moment, while he stares back at her, and finally, she says, "Be careful. I love you."

Gedder stands and leaves the room without a word, and nausea rises in Zillie. She lays back down for a moment, then the truth is too much to deny. She pulls on her clothes, and, once confirming Gedder has left in a fit of pique, she leaves to do what she must.

* * *

It's early enough in the morning that the men aren't off doing the hard labor, but not night. It's then that Zillie arrives at the Maddox house, and her knock is promptly answered by Gwen, who is dressed, and mustn't have been asleep. "Bran isn't," she starts, but Zillie cuts her off with a shake of her head.

"May I come inside?" Zillie asks, valiantly fighting the urge to leave and find her brother.

"Of course." Gwen ushers her inside, and, upon ensuring Zillie is not in desperate need of refreshments, sits with her. "What brings you to us at such an hour?"

"My brother," Zillie says, softly. "He loves you."

Gwen ducks her head, just slightly; even a woman this forward can be embarrassed. "I - I had hoped so."

What is there to say? She could speak of fire and birthrights, of the brokenness fueling Gedder's love for Gwen, or the power he thinks she'll bestow on their line. But it's all madness, myths, and nonsense. The Maddoxes might be partially descended from native savages like herself, but they're above all this.

When she realizes Gwen is watching her, expectant, she forces something, anything, out. "I think he would do anything for you. Anything, Gwen. I'm worried about him."

That worries Gwen, too. This was a better approach, Zillie decides. "What do you mean?" she asks Zillie, persisting.

"We should be careful," Zillie says, choosing her words. "We should be careful about all of this."

"All of what?" Gwen asks, a touch impatient.

Zillie sighs. "You. My brother. Me. Your brother. There are…"

Gwen nods, before she can speak again, to her surprise, and goes on without prompting. "There's more for me here than there ever was at Merioneth - at home, Zillie. I know what Gedder said to Bran. You marrying my brother - my marrying yours - it would… establish this family here. Secure our future, ensure a new start for all of us. It could be grand."

"It could be," Zillie answers, her hands gripping the folds of her skirt. "Bran… he has his Zillah. And this is not your home - "

"It could be," Gwen argues. "Couldn't it?"

"I would be happy to have you be my sister," Zillie says, and tries to imitate Gedder's firmness and confidence in speaking. "And I would be happy to be yours. I just - beg caution, Gwen. Please."

Gwen sighs. "I didn't think you'd be trying to push me towards Rich Llawcae as well. He's a… a good man, a fine man, and any woman would be lucky to have him. I just…"

"There's nothing more I would like than to be your brother's wife," Zillie says softly to Gwen. "But what we like isn't always what's best for us."

Gwen looks steadily at Zillie as though she's waiting for her to falter or give some sort of sign that she's lying or manipulating her purposely, then she exhales. "I should fix breakfast. I'll see you and Gedder later today."

"Gwen," Zillie starts, unsure.

"My dear Zillie," Gwen interrupts her, and takes one of her hands. Zillie looks up at her, surprised, moved, at the genuine look of pained understanding in her friend's eyes. "Thank you."

Her throat tightens, and she nods. Gwen walks her to the door, and Zillie leaves the Maddox house in a daze.

* * *

The day breaks beautifully across the sky as Zillie watches from her window. Today is the sort of day when things happen, when stories are written, when history is made. Another letter from Llewellyn is waiting for her on the desk, but she's too far inside her own head to do anything besides think on the women she can feel moving alongside her in the arc of history.

It's madness to think the dreams are real, or so her father said when she was young. They were rarer, then. Now they're constant and too true and vivid to be anything but slices of time dropped into her head. Her grandmother had this gift, and her great-grandmother before her.

She told Gedder the stories that she saw, from the first day she could string enough words together, the stories that drove him to this jealousy, this aching need, to win a war begun thousands of years ago and waged across continents.

She follows Gedder when he lures Rich out of the settlement, knowing but hoping but still knowing that she might be wrong, that this all might be settled peaceably. Then it's Rich and Gedder, the fair brothers, no, not brothers, not anymore, struggling against each other, Madoc sees the knife in Gwydyr's hand - Gedder's - she can smell the floral smoke from the garlands burning down to nothing - Zillie screams and she throws herself forward, as Gedder goes for the knife and pitches forward and over the cliff, and she can't stop screaming until her throat is raw.

His body is brought forth, mangled and dead, and his face is strangely at peace. They say it's an accident, but she knows in her heart it's not. She weeps day after day, until she realizes her dreams are steady, sea waves sloshing up against stones, a soft rumble of thunder and crack of lightning in a far off place. She pities Gwen. She aches for Bran. But everything is how it must be. The world is steady, the only unknown fire visible in the stars dancing in the sky above.

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